Let Me Off at the Top!: My Classy Life and Other Musings (16 page)

For many years I was asked to attend sensitivity training. I got hit with sexual misconduct suits left and right, at least
twenty a year for a while. My hands were always leaving me and going places. I stood too close to women. I used words like
boobies
and
knockers
and
jugs
and
jigglers
and
melons
to compliment my coworkers. At one point I was told by my lawyer that it was safer if I never talked to women. But of course that is ridiculous. My old-fashioned transgressions aside, I do know a lot about the ladies. Without being modest, I’ve found that women cannot keep their hands off me. It’s true. I’ve slept with more women than six Wilt Chamberlains. I’ve made love to women in the same room—heck, in the same bed—with Wilt. Wilt and I have—oh no I won’t; that’s a story for a different kind of book. Besides, the young women we were with that night, Tracy Karns and Debra Sanlinger, may not want me to tell that story. It’s pretty dirty.

Suffice it to say I’ve learned quite a lot about the fairer sex over the years just through experience alone. If you add to that my extensive reading in scientific journals and my interviews with great lovemakers like myself and Geraldo Rivera, you could say that I’m probably the world’s greatest authority on the subject of women. I could write a whole book just about women. Someday I will, believe me. It would have a bunch of pictures—not just nude women either. They would be on horseback or in cocktail outfits or wearing cheerleading dresses. I would show them in natural settings like offices and beaches, or maybe even on the farm. Each woman in the book would talk about her favorite things, like what turns her on and what her measurements are, stuff like that. Then I would have pictures of these women in their underwear, probably just so you could see a little bit more. After a few photos of
the women in their clothes I would then have nude photos of them. Maybe one part of this book I’m thinking about could have a special unfolding-page section in the middle that gives you a big picture of one of the women completely naked. I don’t know! The book is not fully formed in my mind just yet. Perhaps if I had chapters about stereo equipment and new suit styles it would be helpful for men too. I bet a guy could put a book like this out every couple of months! I would sure read it. My point is I know an awful lot about women.

Women on the whole tend to be more emotional than men. I may be the rare exception. I’m more better at emotional stuff than women. I’m actually more better than women at a lot of stuff. I can balance a basketball on my finger for more than twenty seconds. I bet I can run faster than most women. Cheetahs are the fastest mammals on earth. I know how to spell
Mississippi
backward—what am I doing? This isn’t a contest. Anyway, women turn on the waterworks for just about any reason but mostly for manipulation. No one likes to see a woman cry and women know it. They use the crying thing all the time to get what they want. It starts when they are babies and doesn’t stop until the dirt is shoveled over them. For whatever reason men stop using tears at around seven years old and start using their brains instead to control their surroundings. In scientific terms women’s cranial development is said to be retarded but their powers of manipulation are far in advance of most men’s by the time they are five years old. This is basic developmental stuff, by the way, and you could read it in any journal of human development. There’s a special
“manipulation gene” in women that has been discovered or will be discovered. This gene, which surely exists, controls the crying and lying sections of the frontal cortex lobular section of the brain. It allows women to trick men into all kinds of situations.

A woman’s sneaky and underhanded manipulation can take many forms and can be quite cunning and subtle. Here’s a standard conversation I might have with my wife and glorious sexual partner, Veronica.

Ron

I was thinking about going out with the boys tonight, maybe having a few drinks?

Veronica

Sounds fun.

Ron

Just me and the boys.

Veronica

You need to get out. You’ve been working very hard.

Well, you can see how infuriating this kind of subtle manipulation can be! Every word is so well chosen to cause pain. It’s like they control your mind! I once wore a motorcycle helmet with a dark shield on a date with a woman I thought was trying to control my mind. I was too afraid to take it off for fear she might try to change my plans using manipulative word combinations and crying. I literally could not hear or
see her the whole date. In the end it worked out. We made sweet and long-lasting love but I stayed inside the helmet so as not to let her connect to me and my mind.

Of course, for most of the women in my life I didn’t need a helmet to protect me from their controlling ways. I have an automatic shutoff switch inside my brain that lets me listen to a woman speak without hearing a word. For about a ten-year period, up until I was smitten with Veronica, I used the time that women spoke to me as a chance to think up songs or poems or make up new games. It was a valuable use of my time. A woman would come up to me and maybe start a sentence like “Ron, I need to speak to you.…” If she was serious I would nod and look concerned and say “Okay” and “Right away” every so often, but inside I was off thinking about something else, something fun. I made up the game Piddly-Woop while some woman was talking to me. It’s a complicated but fun game for the whole family.

I’m not going to lie, I heard this a lot from women throughout the sixties: “Are you listening to me?” A lot. So to be honest I’m not sure I perfected my “shutoff switch” method. I know that my colleague Champ Kind has never listened to a woman talk for more than eight seconds. He shuts off and just smiles and waits for them to stop moving their mouths. If you asked him I don’t think he could remember two sentences a woman has said to him. It’s remarkable really. For him it’s like they don’t even exist as speaking animals.

Looking back on it, I think plenty of women thought maybe I was rude. It didn’t really matter though. In those days there were so many women who wanted to make it with a number
one News Anchor that it was just the law of averages. The way I figured it, if I batted one for twenty, that would make for a batting average of fifty. Those are Hall of Fame numbers, my friend, Hall of Fame.

As a Hall of Fame ladies’ man (an institution I am lobbying to create, by the way), I don’t think anyone in the world would mind if I gave up some of my secrets for how to meet, bed and marry the woman of your dreams.

Courtship is as old as the earliest days of fire. Men have forever pursued females in poetry and song and with feats of daring. Little has changed from those early days of courtship. We gentlemen still recite poems and sing and try to outdo other men for the hearts of women. I often dream of the medieval days, when men wearing robes made of thick woven carpet lifted heavy goblets of wine and sang to their paramours. Even though the great banquets and royal feasts of olden days are long gone, I feel like I would have been right at home in their giant halls. I’ve often imagined myself
atop the turret of some noble castle on the Rhine with my falcon, Leander, perched on my arm. I think in a past life I was maybe a baron or possibly an earl and that I had many lands and great wealth and an eye patch. I was known throughout the region as a generous landowner but ruthless when I had to be. I could be quite swift with justice but I was never accused of being unfair. If you’ve seen my dining room in my house, then you know it’s a passion of mine to imagine such things. I’ve commissioned murals on the walls of my dining room with scenes of me throughout history. A local artist by the name of Vincent St. Vincent-Pierre was paid handsomely, perhaps too handsomely, to illustrate me in heroic situations throughout time. While dining at the Burgundy house, guests enjoy rich oil paintings of me as an explorer on a clipper ship sailing for the New World. They can turn their heads and I’m represented as a proud slave in the Roman Colosseum, having just vanquished a lion! St. Vincent-Pierre also portrayed me as a noble savage who first lays eyes on Lewis and Clark from a bluff high above the wide Missouri. Guests often comment on the painting entitled
Justice for All
, where I am standing with my arm around my good friend Nat Turner in a field of bloodied and hacked white slave owners. It’s really quite a room! On the ceiling, above the table, St. Vincent-Pierre painted his masterpiece, Veronica and me making love in the nude as a panoply of exotic animals look on in wonder. It’s the room I’m most proud of in my house. I suspect the room will be carefully dismantled when I pass and donated to the San Diego fine arts museum. Look at me! I was supposed to be talking about courtship. There I go again. The problem
I’m discovering while writing this chronicle is that I’m just too darn interesting!

I don’t have the facts in front of me but I’m pretty sure the ratio of women to men in this country is approximately one and one-quarter women to every eight males. It’s a problem and we should really import more women into this country—not from England, Jesus Christ, NOT FROM ENGLAND. Some countries, like France I believe, have thirty women for every man, which accounts for why Frenchmen always have beautiful girlfriends and wives. If you put a Frenchman in a country where he had to fight it out with real men for the love of a woman, he would fail miserably and be left with only the dogs.

With such a low ratio of women in this country it makes it hard to meet and then court them. Hanging out at the ball game or the Elks Lodge is not going to do it. You could go where they go—the hair parlor, for instance, but you end up looking pretty stupid in a hair parlor. I’ve sat in women’s hair parlors before. It’s only a matter of time before you are asked to leave. The best places to meet women are places where both sexes mingle—churches, parks, department stores and supermarkets. There’s a strategy for each location.

For instance, let’s talk about supermarkets. Women like a man who is confident, and nothing says confidence more than beef. When I’m in a supermarket, whether it be to pick up a gallon of milk or to get some coffee, I take my cart straight for the meat department and pile it full of steaks. Make sure the cart is overflowing with steaks. Don’t worry, you don’t have to buy them. It’s only for show—you can ditch the cart later in
the bread aisle, but while you’re in the supermarket, for two to three hours, you need to push around a cart weighted down with cuts of red meat … and NO CHICKEN. Maybe some pork, but make sure you have lots of sirloin and ribs. Women go nuts! They see all that beef and it triggers within them something from the cavemen days. They just start thinking of procreating. I promise you if you push around a shopping cart with two hundred pounds of meat cuts in a supermarket you will get respect from women. I like to throw in a few cans of beans and twenty or so packages of bacon to add some variety. A box of condoms is too suggestive and shows a real lack of class. No, the best course is to simply walk around the supermarket, humming along with the piped-in music, pushing your cart of meat in front of you like you don’t have a care in the world. You can sometimes “accidentally” bump into a woman and then say something like “Sorry, it looks like my meat got away from me!” If the woman smiles, then follow her—by all means follow her. Some won’t smile. The crabby ones will look at you like you’re some kind of homeless man and recoil. They are not worth the effort. They’re not real women anyway. They might even be lesbians. More than likely women who do not fall for the ole meat cart routine are lesbians.

In a department store you can’t walk around with a cart full of meat. It’s stupid, and frankly you look crazy because most department stores don’t sell meat. The thing to do in a department store is to carry around eight or nine suits. Go straight to the suit department and get eight or nine suits and then start walking around the whole store. Purchasing power
alone is a real turn-on for all women, but when they see suits they react like they’ve seen a shopping cart full of meat. You have the money to buy eight suits. You have the class to wear a suit. You are desirable. It’s simple. Some guys will head over to the women’s wear section, maybe grab a bra to hold, and start crying and talking about the “breakup.” It’s a good ruse. There are women who fall for it but ultimately you need to look secure, and bawling on the floor with underwear in your hand is not very secure looking. If you need to shout out, “I’m buying eight suits today,” that’s okay. Imagine being a woman (not putting on the clothes and walking around in front of a mirror; I mean just imagine it with your brain); now imagine you’re in a store and you see some handsome man with a new toaster in his hand and you are intrigued, but then out of nowhere you hear a loud voice proclaim, “I’m buying eight suits!” And around a corner comes a man holding eight suits. I rest my case.

PTA meetings are real winners. It doesn’t matter if you have a kid in the school. Walk in, sit down and wait. When people start popping up and talking, stand up and talk, maybe cry, but whatever you do make it passionate. I usually try something like “We need to address the issue of safe zones. I know it’s controversial but I am for it!” I blabber on for a bit about keeping children safe and then I might wrap up my speech with something like “… and one more thing: I drive a Chrysler LeBaron.” Women love that you care about children but it’s even better when they hear you drive something like a LeBaron or a Stratus; they get wet down below. It also helps to have a step stool. You really want to tower over everyone
else in the room. If some nosey body gets in your face and asks you what grade your child is in at the school, you need to run away. No harm no foul, just keep running until you are safely out of the neighborhood. If you’re jumping fences, look out for the bigger dogs.

Fortunately for me meeting women has never been a real issue. I am a very big deal. I have been for some time. When you are the number one News Anchor in San Diego you are basically a rock star. When you make it to the network you are a god. Women just want what I have. They want to be close to it. They want to be a part of the magic. Brian Fantana, who does a lot of reporting from the street, literally has to fight the women off with a stick. He once confided in me he’s never masturbated—not once—because it has always been easier for him to just go ahead and have sex with a woman. In fact he sometimes fantasizes about masturbation while having sex with women. That’s what being in the news game is like. Just ask Brian Williams. That guy uses Velcro to keep his pants shut. He doesn’t have time to keep buttoning and unbuttoning them with all the classy tail he gets. Being a News Anchor is so close to being a god on so many levels that you start to think like one. You start to believe it’s your right to descend on women and impregnate them with demigod babies. Those were simpler times, of course, when gods could just come down and have sex with any mortal they wanted. I would give my right nut to live in those days with the gods, but no such luck; I got stuck in this age of horseshit. Anyway, I digress. Once you’ve got the woman interested it’s time to think about stage two: How am I going to get this woman in the sack?